


They Call Me Salvation

by Hey_WantA_Plum



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angels, Demons, Gen, Hell, Mentions of Death, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 18:45:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19469923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hey_WantA_Plum/pseuds/Hey_WantA_Plum
Summary: That's all it has ever been about and all it will ever be about: Getting ahead and winning this twisted game of cat and mouse that I've found myself in. What game you may ask? Well, you're about to find out.





	They Call Me Salvation

When I was a kid my mom would tell me stories of angels. When I would lay down to sleep the last thing that she told me was that the angels were watching over me as I slept. I remember that terrifying me, the idea of some celestial being just watching me as I slept. It even just sounds creepy. 

She was a religious woman and she was in church every time the doors opened. First in and the last out, she was always situated in the front pew. She even taught Sunday school classes for the children of the church. 

Needless to say, her life revolved around church, and God and the stories of the Bible.

This would play an important part in my upbringing. I had been raised in church my entire life, being dragged along by my mother. She didn’t read me fairy tales as bedtime stories. Instead, she read to me the lives of Daniel, Joseph, Ruth and who could forget about the big man himself: Jesus Christ himself. I was constantly reminded that I could go to the Lord with any problem I had. All I needed to do was pray and he would handle it. 

As I grew older I found myself praying that she would just leave me alone. 

I was a teenager when I began to pull away from her religious way of life. Looking back on it now I guess it was really inevitable. Children with my kind of upbringing typically turn out one of two ways; They either become just like their parents and become hyper-religious or they defect from the church and do what they can to distance themselves from their old lifestyle. I chose the latter.

My teenage years would best be described as a massive trainwreck. I fell in with the rebellious cliques at school. You know the ones. The ones that skip class to hang out behind the gym to smoke and talk shit about the rest of the school body. I spent more time in detention than I did at home and my once exemplary grades had fallen to barely passing at best. I dyed my hair and went behind my mom’s back to get piercings. I snuck out at night to go vandalize cars smoke weed with my so-called friends.

One thing remained constant, however, my mom continued to try to fix me. The more I rebelled the more she doubled down on trying to force me into the church. I lost track of how many times she told me that I needed to stop living such a carnal life if I wanted to get into Heaven. That she wouldn’t stand by and watch her only daughter die a sinner and if I continued on this path that was what was bound to happen. At the time I always blew her off; I would roll my eyes or scoff and walk out the door.

I wish I had listened to her. 

As soon as I turned 18 I moved into my girlfriend's apartment. I just wanted to get away from my mom in any way I could and that was the quickest possible way. I packed up my things while she slept and by the time she had woken up any trace of me was erased from that house. I remember her blowing up my phone with texts and calls. She was begging me to come home, threatening to call the police to bring me back, asking what she had done wrong. She said anything that she could that she thought might bring me back to her. Finally, I sent a simple message saying that I was never coming back and wanted absolutely nothing to do with her. She didn’t reply.

I thought I knew everything back then. I thought that I was in control of my own life finally and I was elated. I could do whatever I chose, whenever I chose. What I chose to do was drop out of school. I pulled myself out of school as fast as I could and before I knew it my new life was filled with going to parties with my girlfriend and our friends. My days were drunk away and I became very familiar with the burn of alcohol and things were fun. I was having the time of my life. Life was one big party and I couldn’t be happier. Why wouldn’t I be? I finally had my freedom, I had friends that I thought cared about me and I had a girlfriend that I loved. I had everything I had ever wished for, but I guess I should have been more careful with what I wished for. If I had just listened to my mother and saw what she was trying to teach me then perhaps I would have been graduating from college soon. I would have had a chance to have my own career, my own family, and happy life.

Instead, I shunned her and I paid the price for it: my life.

As a child, I remember being fascinated with stories of Hell and Satan. While other children longed to know more of the eternal paradise of Heaven; what with its streets paved with gold and its reputation as a place of peace and life, I was curious about the Underworld.

My main fascination laid within the fact that despite all of the claims that God loved humanity and wanted the best for them that he would allow his creations to go to such a place. Why would he allow that? The scripture states that Hell was created for the Devil and his angels, not for man. Yet it also states that Hell is enlarging its borders day by day. I never understood why God would let his creations fall so low if he truly loved them so much. However, one thing that stuck with me for life: Hell was a place of fire and suffering. I can assure you that they're wrong, about the fire part anyway. I would know, after all, I've become rather well acquainted will Hell over the last decade.

Hell is cold and calculating. Floored with dull gray slate and crags and boulders as far as the eye can see. Rusted chains and countless hallways filled with rooms but never seem to lead to anywhere in particular. Think of the labyrinth, with its channels and unexpected twists and turn, then add the never-ending soundtrack of screaming and the nauseating smell of sulfur then you've got a better idea of Hell than whoever wrote the Bible. I'm telling you after you die the number of inaccuracies become stunningly obvious. At least that's how it was for me. It's not like I had much else to do other than point everything out as I was being escorted to my very own torture chamber. Gee, I felt honored. How nice of them to give me my own personal room to serve out the after-life sentence that I had been handed by the most corrupt judge of them all.

Something else that you'll notice when you arrive on Satan's doorstep is that demons don't look like demons. They don't have horns and wings and the blood-red skin. They don't even have fangs or anything that humans had thought demons may have looked like. You heard me, all of those renaissance painting are wrong. Demons look like anyone else. Your next-door neighbor, a particularly nasty ex, maybe even a sibling or a complete stranger.

For me, my demon was my very own father.

I hardly knew the man in life, he left my mother and me when I was just ten years old but even then he wasn't particularly active in my life. He was always "busy at work" or being "sent on another business trip by the boss". Looking back on it, if I had known what I know now it should have been obvious that all of those business trips were really to his secretary's house to fuck her into the mattress. 

I'd later go on to learn that his affair had been going on for three years before he left. Or maybe it hadn't, who knows. That's the thing about demons, you never know when they're telling you the truth or when they're lying through faces of stone. They're creatures of sin, what use do they have for the truth? When it causes you pain, that's when. 

You see, abuse isn't just physical and anyone who tells you that is full of shit. Sure there is the immediate satisfaction of hearing screams of agony and moans of pain. There's a rush in watching scarlet red pour from gashes and slits in the poor soul's flesh and nothing could ever compare to watching someone take their last breath, their chest stilling only for it to resume a moment later for the torture to begin all over again. That all gets boring after a time, however, the best feeling is feeding someone the truths- or lies- they had feared to hear for their entire life. Slowly but surely tearing down every single wall and taking a sledgehammer to any small sliver of resolve that they may have been clinging to. When you see that last glimmer of light fade from their eyes that's when you know you have won because it's always about winning. It's about proving to that soul on your rack that you hold all of the cards in the end and nothing that they feel or think can do anything to change that. A demon would love nothing more than to just pull up a chair with a bucket of popcorn and enjoy your demise as if it was a fine film.

They always make you a deal at the end of every day though. A deal that sounds so beautiful sliding off of their silver tongue, a deal that you would have to be stupid to refuse. In exchange for your quasi-freedom, you must become the torturer. Sacrifice whatever humanity you still had left and let the underworld embrace you to become one of its very own. You're already in hell anyway so what's the point in refusing it. 

Over the course of my stay here, I've had a few strong souls come across my rack. The rare few that took it on the chin and no matter how many times you offer them the relief they tell you to go hell(which is redundant in and of itself because I'm already there, thank you. That's how we found ourselves in this situation jack ass) and then they go on to endure for another day. These are the ones that no matter how much pain they are dealt they refuse to buckle, they refuse to choose to inflict pain rather than endure it. From time to time I found myself envying them for I was not one of the strong ones. I won't deny I was weak. If I wasn't then I wouldn't have found myself as a cold-blooded demon with a taste for pain and blood, but hey at least I got some cool powers out of it. 

Truth be told I don't know how long I lasted on the rack. The thing about Hell is that you don't know what time is. It isn't as if they have clocks hanging around and you can easily turn your head and think "Oh! It's one o'clock, looks like I only have 23 more hours of torture until tomorrow". That's not how it looks. You lose track of everything when you die. You don't know what time it is, what day it is, all you know is where you are at and that's kind of hard to get wrong. I'm getting sidetracked. I tend to do that a lot.

Anyway, however long I lasted doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that I didn't last long enough. At some point, something within me snapped and I didn't just climb off that rack, I jumped. I was willing to do anything to end the horror that unleashing that same pain on to someone else seemed so small. It didn't matter that I would be putting someone else in my very position. Nothing mattered other than ending my pain. Funny thing, selfishness had actually been one of my sins that landed me in this place. I was never much one for putting others before myself but selfish is a bit harsh. There's nothing wrong with wanting to get ahead while I could and if I had to cut down a few people in the process then so be it. 

That's all it has ever been about and all it will ever be about: Getting ahead and winning this twisted game of cat and mouse that I've found myself in. What game you may ask? Well, you're about to find out.


End file.
